


Killer on the Telephone

by Rrrowr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2342828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Stiles wanted was a pizza, but instead, dialing blindly has him listening helplessly while someone gets murdered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaages ago, I got this prompt on tumblr : _what if stiles wants to order a pizza late one night like he’s studying for finals but it’s so late that he misdials and a man picks up and he’s like “oh sorry wrong number” and hangs up real quick but then the guy calls him back and talks to him and after a few minutes of creepy weird convo stiles can hear this screaming in the background and peter is a serial killer and he interrupted him and now every time peter murders someone he calls stiles._
> 
> Parts of this fic were originally posted on tumblr [here](http://rrrowr.tumblr.com/post/60860541202).

Stiles is starving, it's just before midnight, and even though he's strung out on energy drinks, he groans at the idea of making himself so much as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He's lucky as hell that he's in a college town, though. There's a pizza place that stays open until three in the morning for night owls and bar hoppers alike — _and_ they delivery. Stiles has ordered from them so often that he's sure that the staff knows his order by heart now. He dials the number from memory and tucks his phone against his shoulder while he hunts around for cash in his backpack to tip the delivery guy. The phone rings and rings and _rings_. They're probably busy, but Stiles can be patient for the sake of delicious, greasy pizza. 

The guy that picks up, however, sounds disgruntled. "Hello?"

"Hi?" Stiles says, hesitating when he doesn't get the usual greeting. "Is this... um. Brother's Pizza?"

It sounds eerily quiet on the other end of the call. No bustling workers. No one is shouting the numbers for orders. The drawn out silence leaves Stiles uneasy, but something keeps him from hanging up immediately. If he focuses, he thinks he can hear the other man breathing. He hears the harsh scrape of a chair and then the loud whine of a door's hinges. A dog whimpers, Stiles thinks, before the door cuts off the sound. Everything is quiet again.

"No," the guy tells him.

"Oh, sorry then," Stiles says and hangs up. His phone rings shrilly while Stiles is googling for the correct number of the pizza parlor, and Stiles answers it without looking. "Wassup?"

"Hello again," croons a slick voice in Stiles' ear, just as he's pulling up the right website and scribbling down the number he needs to call. It's the same voice from a few minutes ago. "You hung up without saying goodbye."

Stiles is more than a little creeped out by getting a call back from a stranger. "It was a wrong number, dude. I said I was sorry." 

"It was rude," the man tells him, not sounding the least bit swayed. "You're supposed to end phone calls with a farewell."

"Uh _huh_." Stiles nods to himself, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "Okay, I'll try to remember to do that right now as I hang up. Bye!"

After he ends the call, Stiles decides to save the number to his contacts (under _Weirdo Stranger_ ) and immediately calls Brother's Pizza to place his order — with the correct number this time. His phone beeps several times while he's on the phone with the cashier, rattling off the toppings he wants and his address for the delivery guy. By the time he hangs up on the pizza place, Stiles is rather shocked to discover that he has eight missed calls from the Weirdo Stranger. There aren't any new messages in his voicemail, but that does little to comfort him when his phone rings in his palm.

Intending to tell this stranger to fuck off, Stiles answers and barely gets his mouth open before he hears, "Don't you dare hang up. If you do, I'll carve your phone number into the chest of my friend and leave his body for the police to find." This time, the man's voice is all menace, and even without the blatant threat, his tone is enough to have Stiles' mouth snapping shut. When the man speaks next, his voice is much gentler. "There, now. Let's start fresh. We're just having a conversation here. You don't need to be rude, and I don't need to make any more promises, am I right?"

Stiles breathes carefully, listening intently for some kind of hint that this guy isn't what he seems. He flinches when he hears a yelp through the receiver. There's no mistaking the sound for a dog this time, not with the muffled sobbing that follows after it. Stiles clutches the edge of his desk and closes his eyes, unable to breathe through the fear that wraps tight around his lungs.

"Am I right?" 

"Right," Stiles says at once. "You're right."

"Good," he says. "My name is Peter. What's yours?"

"Stiles," he says.

"Ah, see? That wasn't so hard. Now we're friends," Peter says, sounding much happier with Stiles being cooperative. "I like honesty in my friends. I don't like it when my friends try to hide things from me. It's a bad habit. After a while, lying becomes a nervous tick — automatic, thoughtless. It's easy to spot."

Stiles feels the hair rising on the back of his neck.

"You're not going to lie to me, are you, Stiles?" Peter asks.

"No," Stiles answers. His heart is pounding with panic, however. 

Peter tuts at him. "Are you going to tell anyone about this phone call?"

Stiles holds his breath. "No," he says.

This time, Peter makes a softly disappointed noise. "Oh dear. You're a liar." On the other end of the call, he hears Peter murmuring to someone else. He can just make out the words. _My new friend is a liar,_ he hears. _Do you remember how much I dislike liars?_ To Stiles, Peter says: "I have someone here who wants to talk to you."

Stiles puts a hand over his own eyes. He's seen enough horror movies to have a vivid idea of where this could go. Sure enough, the next thing he hears is terrible sobbing that gets louder as Peter's phone gets held close to the source. "He-hello," stutters this new voice. A man, Stiles thinks. Faintly, Stiles hears Peter prompting him to speak. "I— I don't want you to call the police— or anyone, o- okay? I'm fine. I'm— I'm having a good time here with Peter, and I'm fine. I'm fine, really."

Stiles hears the man choke on tears again as the phone's moved back to Peter. "Did you hear all that, Stiles?" Peter asks.

"Yes," Stiles says.

"Do you believe him?" Peter asks. 

There's a depth to his tone that makes Stiles hesitate. "I don't know what you want me to say," Stiles admits after a moment. "I don't want you to hurt him."

"How very honest of you," Peter says, pleased with his response, "but that's not what I asked. I want to know if you believe him."

He sounds like a teacher, Stiles thinks, with a manner of speaking that seems to stem from a fountain of endless patience while still managing to stress what he wants Stiles to learn. If Stiles' teachers could see him now, they would probably be shocked to see him hanging off of every word out of Peter's mouth. Stiles bites his lip, leaning against the edge of his desk. He picks at the loose threads on his jeans, thinking. 

Peter wants him to be honest. He should tell the truth, but he's scared. He doesn't know what Peter will do, but there's always the risk that the threat from earlier might come into play if he doesn't do what Peter wants.

"Stiles," Peter calls sweetly. "I asked if you believed him."

"No," Stiles says softly. He immediately wants to take back his answer, uncertain about the choice he just made. "I don't believe him."

He thinks he can hear the way Peter smiles. "Very good, Stiles. Being honest isn't so difficult with a little encouragement, is it?" Peter says. "Unfortunately, you're right."

"Unfortunately?" Stiles echoes.

"Yes," Peter says. "Unfortunate because that makes him a liar, and I've already told you how much I dislike people who lie."

"No, wait—" 

The crying screams of horror are loud enough that Stiles can hear them with the phone at arm's length. It sounds surreal through the small, tinny speaker — too distant to be real — and then, the screaming cuts off into the sound of wet choking and coughs that gurgle helplessly. After a minute, though, even that has passed, and Stiles can't hear anything except for Peter, heaving for breath like he's just run a marathon.

Peter sounds exhilarated when he picks the phone up once more. "Well, was that as good for you as it was for me?" He laughs between what might be sucking sounds. Stiles imagines Peter licking his fingers clean of blood and wishes he hadn't. "I'm going to call you again, Stiles," Peter promises. "And before you think of it, I don't like being ignored either."

Peter says goodbye before he hangs up, and Stiles stares at his phone for a long, long time.


	2. Chapter 2

During the following days, Stiles thinks that he’s going to tell his dad. He almost does in half a million times. There are a billion moments where he comes up to the dining table with his cell phone clutched in a white knuckled grip. _I have a murderer’s phone number_ sits on the tip of his tongue, ready to jump, but every time he gets close, he gets Peter’s voice in the back of his head as a hard reminder.

Looking back on what he knows, the area code of Peter's number was right for Beacon Hills, but the last four digits had been all screwed up compared to what he intended to dial. He doesn’t even know what his fingers had been doing, screwing up the number for the pizza parlor so badly. Regardless, a phone number is all Stiles has to go on, which isn't much at all, to be honest. Besides, area codes covered a lot of land, and even if Stiles did manage to convince his dad of the truth, Peter could be anywhere within that area — or at least, he only needed to have been once at some time. It was possible that Peter was calling him from the other end of the state, the other end of the country.

Weeks roll by without his dad showing up with a new case file. Only the big projects get taken home anymore — murders, missing persons, and so on — all the difficult cases that his dad can't quite set aside when he leaves the station. All in all, it seems like Beacon Hills is experiencing a period of relative quiet, and without word of a new murder victim nearby, Stiles lets himself relax a little. He lets himself start to answer his phone again without looking.

That’s his first mistake.

||

Stiles hears his phone ringing on his bedside table when he near the end of his shower. Shutting off the water, he follows the sound of it, still dripping wet from rinsing off quickly, and towels off his face and hair as he picks it up and thumbs the button to accept the call. His greeting is muffled by the towel while he scrubs his face dry.

"Hello," says Peter. As soon as he recognizes the voice, Stiles goes very still, lets his towel fall around his shoulders. "I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure you were going to answer."

Stiles doesn’t say anything at all. He’s not sure he wants to. Last time he said something, he had to listen to a man die. He’d begun to hope that maybe it was a one-off thing that he’d never, ever have to think about again. Hell, he would have been grateful for it to be a figment of his stressed out imagination. Too much homework and not enough sleep, he thought and hadn’t dared to look at his call history.

"I didn’t scare you off, did I?" Peter asks. "We might learn to be very good friends, you and I. I don’t get many calls when I have company over, you see, so it seemed… _serendipitous_.” Peter’s voice makes him shake. Stiles reaches for the solidity of his bedroom wall, and while he’s sure that Peter can hear him breathing — heavy and frightened — he can’t find it in himself to actually speak. "We should get to know each other better," Peter goes on. "Friends know lots of things about each other, and I want us to be the very best of friends. I think we have the potential for that."

Stiles licks his lips, looking to the door to his bedroom. It’s open. Maybe he should close it.

Peter huffs in his ear. “I thought I told you that I don’t like being ignored.”

His attention snaps back to Peter at once. “I’m sorry,” he says automatically, scratching his fingers through his wet hair. He quickly starts yanking fresh clothes of his closet. There’s no way that he can have this conversation while he’s naked. Even if it means having clothes stick to his still damp skin, it’s better than the vulnerability he’d feel with Peter’s voice crawling all over his skin. “I… I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

"I told you that I would," Peter replies. Maybe he can hear Stiles getting dressed, juggling the phone around shirt sleeves and holding it against his face while he pulls on some jeans. "I’m not interrupting anything, am I?"

Water drips down the side of Stiles’ face. “I was in the shower.” Any earlier and Stiles might have missed his call entirely — not that he wants to be having this conversation, but who knows what Peter would do if Stiles didn’t answer.

Peter hums, and Stiles doesn’t want to know if Peter is a pervert on top of being a murderer. If Peter is picturing him — or anyone — showering, then Stiles would rather not know. "Tell me about your day."

"My day?"

"Yes. We’re getting to know each other," Peter reminds him. "The only things I know about you are your name and phone number. I can only assume from your shower that you’re hygienic, but that’s hardly _friendly_ information.”

Stiles glances at his bedroom door again, wondering when his dad gets home and if he can stall this call long enough for his dad to overhear something suspicious. “I don’t know…”

"If you’re cautious, I understand. I’m basically a stranger to you," Peter says. He sounds disturbingly reasonable, and Stiles doesn’t like that. He bets that Peter probably sees people every day without giving away his secrets. Stiles knows a few guys named Peter, but none of them look like killers. He’s a cop’s kid; of anyone, you’d think he’d know a bad guy when he saw one. "But if you think about it, you know my name and my phone number, too. And you know what I did a few weeks ago, too, don’t you?"

He breathes in softly. “You killed someone,” he says. It’s the easiest thing he’s been able to say since he answered the phone.

Peter just purrs, “That’s right.” Stiles swallows down the bile that surges into his throat at the satisfaction in his voice. “I have an idea you might like. We can trade. You tell me a little bit about your day, and I’ll tell you a little bit about mine.”

Stiles frowns, confused at the offer. “I’m not sure I want to know about your day.” Especially if it involves killing people.

"Trust me." The way Peter says it make Stiles feel like Peter uses those words a lot to get what he wants. "You’ll want to know."

He should hang up. He should stop listening. He should do anything other than let Peter whisper temptations into his ear like this. His dad would know what to do, if he knew, but he doesn’t know anything. Maybe if he plays along, Stiles could eventually give his dad more than just a first name and a phone number. With this in mind, Stiles sinks down to the floor next to his bed and tilts his head back against the covers. He sighs. “Where do you want me to start?”

There’s a sound on the other end of the phone, and for a second, Stiles is terrified that it’s someone being beaten, that Peter has a second victim and that’s why Peter called. But the noises keep happening, and eventually Stiles realizes that it’s Peter getting settled, relaxing for what he seems to think will be a long conversation. "From the beginning," Peter prompts. "Today’s a Thursday. When did you wake up?"

"Six-thirty."

"Did you go to work?"

"School," Stiles corrects.

"College?"

Stiles hangs his head, covering the back of his neck with a hand. “High school,” he answers. His mouth feels incredibly dry.

"You’re young," Peter says, surprised. "I figured you’d be older. I’m not very good at judging ages over the phone, but still… _High school._ ”

"How old are you?" Stiles asks, somewhat reflexively defensive.

Peter hums as he contemplates his response. “Not as old as I should be, but older than you might think.”

"That’s not an answer."

"It is an answer," Peter says with a definite smile in his tone. "It’s just not the answer you want." He chuckles at Stiles’ frustration. "Come on. Tell me the rest. What did you do at school?"

"I _learned stuff_ ,” Stiles replies waspishly before he can think. Silently, he dares Peter to complain. After all it’s not like he’s lying.

Peter’s delighted. “Cheeky. Do you play a sport?”

Stiles glances briefly at the lacrosse sticks leaning against the wall near his bedroom door. "No."

Peter catches him at once, however. “Liar,” he scolds lightly. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem upset about it.

Stiles’ brows wrinkle together, and he rubs a knuckle between them. “How would you know?”

"It’s a gift." Peter seems to wave aside Stiles’ question. "Now tell me the truth. Is it basketball?"

Stiles’ breath makes his nostrils flair. “Lacrosse,” he admits grudgingly.

"Did you have practice today?" Peter asks. "Were you showering because you were dirty from running around all afternoon with the other players?"

It’s a creepy way to put it, but… “Yeah.” Abruptly, Stiles' concern about Peter being a pervert feels a lot less idle. 

"Wonderful," Peter praises with a sigh. "You’re an athletic, hygienic, clever young man."

It’s pretty stupid that Stiles’ chest swells a little with pride at being referred to as a young man. He’s not as athletic as Peter’s probably imagining. He’s kind of on the small side — no muscle mass to speak of. Even at sixteen, people call him ‘boy’ more often than not. Still… “What makes you think I’m clever? Just because I go to school doesn’t mean I’m smart.”

"Hm," Peter says. "You have a valid point, but you haven’t told anyone about me, have you?"

Stiles freezes. Quietly: “No.”

"No," Peter echoes. "No, you haven’t, but you could have, I imagine. You probably thought about it. Good people tend to."

"I could be bad," Stiles argues just for the sake of it. He doesn’t like the idea of Peter picking him apart like this. He doesn’t like what his decisions tell Peter about him.

"You could be," Peter agrees, but in such a way that betrays that he’s going over the idea in his head. Stiles is grateful that Peter didn’t call him a liar, but then, he’s not sure what it means that Peter thinks it’s a possibility. "But the last time we spoke, you didn’t want me to hurt my friend. There was no reason why you should care. You didn’t even know his name. I know people who wouldn't have tried to stop me, and yet, here you are." Peter makes a deliberately pensive noise. "I wonder why that is. Good people don’t even like the thought that I might be hurting someone right now — and believe me, I could be — but you’re willing to risk knowing that for the chance to find out more about me. You’re asking questions. You want to trade. You’re _clever_ ,” Peter stresses, “because you think you’re smart enough to try catching me.”

There’s a manic quality to Peter’s words that sets Stiles’ nerves alight. Peter’s excited, he realizes with a shock.

"If you’re going to catch me, you’re going to need clues," Peter says. "Good thing you've already traded for them. Are you ready? I can wait if you want to get something to write on."

Stiles considers denying that he wants to remember every detail Peter tells him, but Peter is silent on the other end like he’s actually waiting for Stiles to be ready to record his story. With a rush of curses under his breath, Stiles gives in and rushes to his computer, booting it up and opening up a word document to type in. It wouldn't be as organic a recording as pen to paper, but he could be sure to keep up, at least.

Peter laughs softly the whole way. “Are you ready now?”

"Yeah," Stiles says, jamming the phone between his shoulder and cheek. His fingers are poised above the keyboard. "I’m listening."

"Wonderful. Now listen closely—"

Stiles isn’t sure what he expected — mundane things, really. Things he’d have to pull together through some wild assumptions and some creative use of google maps. What Peter lays out instead is much more vital. He describes a woman — beautiful, if you’re into that. Blonde, tall, arrogant. She has a background in business and is thirty-four years old but you might not be able to tell. Kate, as Peter finally names her, is staying with family in town. Just visiting — which is fortuitous, really, because Peter’s been looking for her for years.

(Stiles does not let himself think about the possibility that Peter’s been killing people for years without getting caught. He does not.)

Every morning, Kate and her older brother take her niece to school — “She’s in high school just like you, Stiles. Very pretty. The whole family has excellent genes” — and afterward, Kate goes the shooting range. Three times a week on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, but Thursdays are special. On Thursdays, Kate stays in town to sit at a coffee shop and watches people.

"Wait," Stiles says. He switches his phone to his right shoulder and shakes out the ache in his left arm, rolls his head to stretch his neck. "That’s what you did today? You watched Kate watch people?"

"You don’t like it?"

"I didn’t say that," Stiles replies — though he is wondering where this is going. "It’s just… Isn’t that boring, sitting around all day watching people?"

"It depends on who you’re watching," Peter says.

"Spoken like a man who watches a lot of people," Stiles mutters.

"Patience," Peter coaches. "I’m getting to the good part." His story goes into minute detail. Kate talks to several people while she’s at her coffee shop, then makes a phone call, and leaves. Peter follows her to the local preserve, where — Peter tells him with suitable dramatics coloring his voice — Kate hunts.

"Hunts?" Stiles says, leaning back in his chair. "Is it a hunting preserve?"

"It’s really more of a park, to be honest," Peter says. "There’s wildlife anywhere if you look hard enough — pheasants, deer, quail — but most of what you’ll find in this preserve is more difficult prey."

"Like what?" Stiles asks, typing it all up as Peter talks. He kind of laughs. "A bear?"

"More like tourists," Peter says. "A bear." He mimics Stiles’ almost-laugh. "That’s cute."

Stiles stops typing. “What?”

"The bear thing," Peter says again. "It was funny."

"No, I meant— Kate’s like you?" Stiles clarifies. "She kills people too?"

"I see how it is. I kill one person, so clearly I must have killed others, right? That’s not very nice, Stiles," Peter scolds.

"I— I meant—"

"I’m kidding," Peter cuts in smoothly. "You’re right about me, but… To answer your question, yes and no. Kate’s different. She’s an arsonist."

Stiles grabs the phone and straightens up, feeling sort of incredulous. “She sets people on fire?”

Peter laughs. “Oh, no. Not people.”

Stiles relaxes. “Oh.”

"She sets their homes on fire."

"That’s worse!"

"Or their camp or their trailer or their tent," Peter goes on. "Wherever they’re sleeping. I don’t think it makes any difference to her so long as they don’t see her coming. I suppose it has a certain level of fascination, but I don’t have a taste for fire. It’s a bit too—" Peter pauses, searching for the words.

"Hard to control?" Stiles suggests.

"I was going to say impersonal." Peter sounds mildly affronted.

"So she sets people — or their houses or whatever — on fire every Thursday?" Stiles asks. That seems to be a bit much, but at least that meant she was more likely to get caught, if that were the case.

"Not every Thursday, no," Peter answers, effectively stripping Stiles of his hope. "She has to make sure she knows where everyone is camping so she can find them again at night. Kate visits the preserve so often in order to learn it like the back of her hand. She'll need to if she wants to pretend she was somewhere else when the fire started."

Stiles grimaces. “That’s a lot of work for one fire.”

"Anything meaningful takes effort and dedication, Stiles. That’s what gives it worth," Peter says sagely. "You’ll learn that as you get older."

It sounds like something his teachers or his dad would tell him, and that’s too weird for Stiles to take. "What’s Kate doing now?"

"Let’s see." Peter grunts as he moves — perhaps rising from wherever he was reclined while talking with Stiles. Another musing hum. "It looks like she’s already started."

"How come you don’t call the cops on her?" Stiles asks. "It doesn’t sound like you like her enough to care if she gets caught."

"That’s true," Peter says, "but I don’t want the cops interrupting my hunt either. I’d rather not let her realize that someone’s watching."

Stiles chews on his lip, confused by the curiosity that’s springing up like a well in his chest. “You’re going to kill her.”

"Soon, I think, but not yet. It doesn’t feel right, yet."

"Is this what you wanted me to know?" Stiles asks. "That you kill other killers and so I should like you? Enemy of my enemy is my friend or whatever?"

Peter snorts. “Adorable. Your world is so black and white,” he says. “I kill whoever I like, but Kate is special. I’m going to take my time with her.”

Stiles can hear the change in Peter’s voice, going from what seems like normal, storytelling chit chat to the predatory timbre that he recognizes from their first phone call. The transition is so smooth that Stiles doesn’t see it coming until his spine has already stiffened in fear. "You like to take your time?" he asks.

He’s not typing anymore — just listening.

"Yes," Peter says. "It’s much more satisfying when I can savor it."

"You seemed to do it pretty fast, last time." Stiles doesn’t like to think of that often, but he remembers that the man Peter killed couldn’t have been screaming for longer than a minute before falling silent.

"And how long do you think I had him with me before you called?" Peter replies. "I’m not a liar, Stiles. I like to take my time. If I could, I would keep them forever. I think it would probably be sweeter, killing them a second time, knowing that they’ll know what I’m going to do to them. But they never last, and so I have to find new friends."

Stiles feels his blood run cold. “What are you going to do to me?”

"Hm?" Peter asks, distracted. "What do you mean?"

"Well." Stiles licks his lips. "Cause I’m your new friend now. Does that mean that you’re already taking your time with me? Are you going to kill me?" He isn’t sure he wants to know, to be honest, but now he’s gone and asked. Too late now to eat his words.

"Oh, Stiles," Peter says soothingly. "If I was going to kill you, why would I ruin the surprise? It’s your first time, after all. I’d want it to be special."

The phone slips from Stiles’ fingers. It clatters to the floor and lands face up, with Peter’s name and phone number and anonymous icon still glowing on the screen. Stiles stares at it as he shakes in his chair. He should pick it up, probably. He’s pretty sure Peter won’t like that Stiles has stopped responding to him, but when he grips his knees with numb fingers, he can’t get them to move toward the phone.

"Shit," he hisses, hunching. "You’re in way over your head, Stilinski. What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Out of the corner of his vision, his phone goes dark, and then brightens again a few seconds later, ringing cheerily as Peter calls back. Stiles lets it ring, and it goes on and on until voicemail picks up for him. Peter calls again. And then again. Somehow, Stiles feels like each call is getting angrier and angrier.

"He doesn’t like to be ignored. Pick up the phone," he tells himself when his phone rings yet a fourth time. "Pick it up. Pick it up. Pick it up. Pick up the goddamn phone, Stiles. That’s all you have to do. He doesn’t even know where the fuck you live. How can he try to kill you?"

Stiles picks up the phone. It rings three times in his palm before he accepts the call. He doesn’t say hello, but then, neither does Peter. Instead, Peter says, "I’ve told you before, Stiles. Don’t ever hang up on me again." 

"I didn’t," Stiles says hurriedly. "The phone slipped out of my hand."

Peter sniffs, unimpressed by this explanation. “You didn’t answer when I called back.”

"I’m sorry," Stiles says and is horrified to realize that he can hear Peter’s mouth stretching into a grin, the soft breath of laughter, the wet peel of his lips pulling back from his teeth. "I’ll do better next time."

"Next time, I’ll have Kate with me," Peter says. "Be ready for that."

"Okay," Stiles says, relieved. "I’ll be ready."

"Good night, Stiles."

Stiles bites back a whimper. “Good night.” He holds the phone to his ear for a few more seconds, just to be sure, and when he lets his hand fall into his lap, the screen is black again. In front of him, his notes on his computer are a mess of blocked text and sporadic paragraphing. His cursor is blinking at the end of the last sentence.

_I’m going to take my time with her._ |


End file.
